The Rascal Boy
by mebh
Summary: Following the death of his parents, a young Roy Mustang is placed in the care of his no nonsense aunt, Madame Christmas.  Battling huffing and tantrums, the Madame tries to anchor the boy amidst the chaos of his loss. Ft a few more familiar faces too...
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I don't own FMA. Or a car.**

This is an idea that's been eating me for a while, so having finished Chapter 3 of HDWL and sent it to the marvellous **wordswithout** for beta-ing, I thought I'd start it.

A possible few chapters charting Roy's first few weeks with Madame Christmas. **NB: **I'm not clever enough to make the formatting work on FF for the newspaper bit below... imaginations at the ready please!

Thanks to **ThousandSunnyLyon** for her beta work on it (go and read her stuff: it's fabby), and to **MegamiZe **and **Disastergirl** for listening to me moan. :D

Your thoughts, as always, are welcomed with a smile/cowering behind arms.

Tally ho!

* * *

**Husband and wife shot dead in plush West End home. Victims found with 'horrendous' wounds.**

Oscar Mustang (35), an alleged political agitator, and his wife Jun Xia (27) were found shot dead in Central's affluent West End on Tuesday morning.

A police spokeswoman stated that the shooting bore the hallmarks of a paramilitary-style murder, and opposition publicist, Noel Canberra has this morning spoken out against the recent spate of attacks targeting purported activists.

A confirmed radical and friend of the family, who wished to remain anonymous, visited the murder scene and described it as a 'chilling' sight.

The couple are survived by their 4-year-old son, Roy Mustang, who is rumoured to have been found with the bodies when they were discovered by the hired help. Friends say he will be placed in the custody of Mustang's sister, 'Madame Christmas' - owner of the infamous bar of the same name.

A private funeral service will be held tomorrow at an undisclosed location.

* * *

"Roy Mustang!" Chris scolded as a plate clattered to the floor, closely followed by a glass of milk. "I'll let you starve, boy. Don't think I won't let you starve if you keep this up!"

Black patent shoes thudded against the table legs as the young boy kicked and squirmed in his seat. With another wild swipe of his arm, he sent a fork rocketing off the table to strike a lounging tabby cat on the backside. It darted from its comfy bed, issuing a sharp hiss at its attacker before prowling out of the room, tail in the air.

The child had been with Chris for over a fortnight now and still he refused to heed a single word she said. Up until he was placed in her care, she actually didn't mind the kid. They had shared a sort of naughty relationship where Roy didn't tell his father if she sneaked a drink during the day, and _she_ didn't tell him if Roy had one too many macaroons. The two of them would sit together on the sofa listening to records and hiccuping happily until he was collected again at the end of his stay.

Now though, he was an unmitigated terror. Chris understood, of course she did, that Roy had been traumatised by the deaths of his parents horribly – hadn't they all? Oscar Mustang was an arrogant bastard at the best of times, but he was, when all was said and done, still her little brother. His wife also was a little too aloof for Chris' liking, but then, she was always polite, and was clearly desperately in love with her little boy.

Overnight almost, that boy had turned from a smiling, agreeable little gentleman into a miniature devil who swung between bouts of unbreakable silence and outright mayhem. He bit, spat, hit, wrecked and tore. He squealed, shouted, screamed and – surprisingly – swore. Often, he not only outright refused to eat his dinner, but also managed to discard it in the most imaginative ways. Chris once slipped on a pair of expensive, sheepskin lined boots only to find the toes stuffed full of mashed potatoes. The cats didn't escape lightly either. He may have been smaller than the average four-year-old, but Roy Mustang was quick. She was surprised any of her moggies still had tails.

And sleep? That was the worst of all. Chris might have considered whether the boy was half badger, his nocturnal activities were so energetic. She _could not_ get him to stay in his own bed, no matter which tricks she tried. She sat with him until he nodded off: he climbed into her bed ten minutes later. She kept him up until 2am to tire him out: he woke at 3am screaming his head off. She once even resorted to locking him in his room to be rewarded by a wake-up call from the night watchman saying that the boy had pried open the window and was trying to escape out onto the roof.

The only time he _did_ sleep was when he couldn't battle biology any longer and he was dragged under against his will. She knew that was no way for a child to live. Underneath all her anger and frustration, Roy Mustang, in his tiny waistcoat and black shiny shoes, was breaking her heart.

The smell of smoke roused her from her musings.

"Roy!" She cried, lurching to snatch his hand away from the candle that had toppled and ignited the lace table cloth. She pulled him roughly from the chair where he struggled in her grasp, his cheeks puffed out as he scraped the fingernails of his left hand along her forearm. "Bold! You're very bold – do you understand?" She asked. She shook him. "Do you understand, Roy?"

Like someone flipping a switch, all the fight went out of him. Two huge, doleful eyes crept up to meet hers. He looked for the world as though the boy who had been impossibly naughty a few seconds ago was a changeling and it was he – the innocent one – who was getting the blame. He glanced upwards to where one of the barmaids was beating the table frantically to extinguish the flames.

"Roy baby," Chris cooed eagerly, wiping his cheek as his black eyes danced with unshed tears. "You mustn't scare Aunty Chris like that. You _frightened_ me, Roy-boy. Tell me you understand that."

His hands free, Roy twiddled his tiny fingers and sucked in a breath. He nodded and offered Chris his small, pale hand – a tragic gesture, really, because the boy only understood it as a way to say 'I'm sorry.' God knows he had seen it enough at his parents' funeral.

"_I'm sorry for your loss, kid. It was a terrible blow."_

"_Your father was a great man. I'm sorry he ever came back to Central. Truly, I'm sorry."_

"_Sorry, Roy. I'm so very, very sorry."_

"Sorry," he whispered, and in those two syllables he sounded ten times older than his scarce four years. "Sorry."

Chris bent low and took his hand, giving it a firm shake. He awarded her with a slim, cautious smile that made him look so much like his mother it was startling. With a ruffle of his hair – a messy affair, well in need of a chop – Chris stood to full height. With hands on her hips, she looked down on him and tried to recognise any signs of the child he once was. He avoided her gaze, choosing instead to stare at the cat, who against its better judgement, had wandered back into the dining room. He did a lot of that: '_not_ looking'. Sometimes those looks, distant and painfully bleak, scared Chris far more than she would ever admit.

Nobody knew for sure what had happened at Oscar's house that night: not the police, not his friends, not his son – nobody. The bodies were discovered by the cleaner the following morning. Oscar and Jun Xia lay butchered on the floor with little Roy curled up between them, sodden in their blood. Until one particularly astute detective showed up, no one even thought to check the boy for a pulse. They had simply assumed all three of them had been shot dead. The detective told Chris that Roy had been shocked into slumber by the violence and noise. Certainly, when he woke – grumpy and confused – he didn't utter a single syllable for three whole days. Even when just one hour after his awakening he was told the news, he didn't make a peep. He didn't even cry – he _still_ hadn't. Experts told Chris that he might be mute, dumbstruck by the event. Then on third night the tantrums started.

As she tried to put him to bed, Roy bolted for the door, his skinny legs donned in clean white socks pounding his retreat. He made it about half way down the landing before a few of Chris' girls caught him and frog-marched him – kicking and screaming – back to his room. Chris was still missing a lump of hair he had pulled clean out of her head as he fought her efforts to make him settle down. He was _very _creative at being bratty. Clinging to her arm with monkey-like agility, he hoisted his legs to where they dangled a few inches above the bed. When she tried to lower him even further onto the sheets, his ankles swung up to wrap around her wrist until he was hanging like a sloth on her entire arm. She remembered noting, despite the chaos, how little he weighed.

A fake cough broke her from her thoughts. Roy was looking at _her_ now with something between impatience and curiosity in his eyes. He cocked his head while he studied her right back, and she had to wonder if he felt as sorry for her as she did for him. There was certainly something going on in that head of his. Chris had noticed over the past few days that the boy had inherited his father's habit of clenching his jaw when he was deep in thought, which, when he wasn't tearing the house down, seemed to be most the time. Had their relationship been more well founded, she would have told him he had a lifetime of headaches to look forward to if he kept it up.

Whatever his notion, he discarded it a few moments later with a flamboyantly dissatisfied sigh. Then shoving his hands into his pockets, he gave her one more suspicious glance and strolled towards the stairs.

"Roy," called Chris. "Where are you going?"

He didn't look back but instead focussed on the grand feat of climbing old stairs with short legs. He removed one of his hands from his pocket to hold onto the low hanging bannister while he place one foot, then the other on each stair. It should have been funny, but it wasn't.

"Roy-"

"Art!" came the bothered response.

Art. The child was obsessed with art. In fact, it was the only thing Chris had seen him turn his hand to since he moved in with her. While her bordello girls tried to coax him to the piano or to learn draughts, he fobbed them off – sometimes with a snarl, sometimes with a smile – to sketch instead.

There must have been a hundred pictures in the box under his bed now. Some of the pictures were of dogs and houses, trees and cars – the usual rubbish that kids are obsessed with drawing. But most of them Chris didn't understand at all. Using a ruler and sometimes the bottom of a glass, Roy would spend hours drawing intricate, eye-melting shapes. To her eye, they looked like mostly nonsense, but when she showed them to Charles Knox, the young doctor who propped up her bar most every night, he nearly fell off his stool.

'He's definitely your brother's son, Chris,' he had said. 'There's no mistaking that.'

He tried to explain the meaning behind the lines; tossing out phrases like 'radial geometry' as if he were talking about a child's jigsaw puzzle.

'How does he _know_ this, Chris?' he asked just a week ago, his eyes over bright with a particularly strong blend of Drachman whiskey. 'He's a genius. I'm telling you, woman: either that kid has a subscription to _The National Geometry Index_ or he's a goddamn, straight-up child genius.' He had smiled then, casting Chris mischievous eyes over the lip of his glass. 'You could always sell him to the State.'

'Don't tempt me,' was her only reply.

Gathering herself, Chris sidled over to the young Chloe who was cradling a soaking, charred lace table cloth in her arms.

"What do you think, Chloe?" Chris asked, taking the cloth from her and tossing it to lie next to the bin.

The girl looked up, clearly still flummoxed by lunchtime's fiery proceedings.

Chris smiled and slapped her back. "You think I should kill him and put him in the stew?"

"What do I... what?" asked the girl in shock.

In answer to Chloe's confusion, Chris simply laughed and moved out to the front of house to greet her patrons. Chloe was left behind – arms still holding the absent table cloth. The new recruit had a lot to learn about Chris' sense of humour, and the older woman reckoned she may as well start teaching early. What better way than to threaten to throw the son of her dead brother into a rabbit stew? She couldn't say the idea wasn't appealing.

Chattering business types and early starters filled the large lounge to capacity, the typical lunchtime crowd. After an hour or so of helping to take the edge off the busy shift, Chris left her assistant manager to the rest. Emilia was a great supervisor; calm, popular with the customers and moreover, she understood exactly how much trouble three feet of rascal could be. Roy absolutely hated her, most likely because as an orphan herself, she was _not_ willing to put up with his behaviour. One morning, on returning from the market, Chris found Roy passed out quite peacefully on one of the sofas, Emilia having fed him a dose of whiskey.

Thinking of him lying there, index finger to his lips, Chris had a rare moment of weakness. After everything, wasn't he just a lost little boy, wrestling with something he couldn't possibly understand? In her darker hours since she lost her brother, Chris had wanted to smash and bite and rail as well. In those moments, Roy's hair lightened to brown and his eyes to green, and in her mind she saw Oscar as he was as a boy: spirited and ready to shake the world into submission. Her little Ossy – she would miss him terribly.

She paused at Roy's bedroom door, fingering the brass knob as she reigned in her emotions. _Little brat_, she thought to herself, pulling in a deep, steeling breath. She counted to three. With a clack, the knob turned and Chris entered.

She breathed out a laugh; the image in front of her wasn't exactly what she had been expecting. Pencil still in hand, Roy sat on the floor, bent double at the waist so that his chest laid almost parallel with his thighs and his dark head rested between his bare knees. It was a ludicrous position to fall asleep in, further reminding Chris that she had four-year-old insomniac on her hands.

Creeping closer, she cringed when a floorboard creaked under her weight. She cursed the old property and took the next few steps with as much grace as she could muster.

Closer now, she could tell the boy had been forced into a heavy slumber. His chest rose and fell with steady breathing as his small fingers flittered in some dreamt exploit. She was never one for caution really, and so easing one hand under his legs and the other across his back, she lifted him up as carefully as she could, half petrified that he would wake and catch her in the middle of her non-crime. He didn't stir however.

There were benefits to him being so light, Chris realised, as she freed one hand to pull back the thick woollen covers of his bed. She laid him down, taking special care with his head as it sank into the pillow, and pulled the blankets up to his chin. In slumber, Roy wriggled and extracted his hands to curl his fingers around the edge of the blanket. He issued a soft moan and calmed into a deeper sleep again.

"Now why can't you do this when the owls are out, Roy-boy?" She whispered, repeatedly pushing his fringe back from his face, only for it to fall back again. "You're putting years on your Aunty Chris. First your dad, with his bloody meddling with one thing or another, and now you.

"I'm my own worst enemy, letting you sleep through the afternoon, you know that? You'll likely be up all night now terrorising my guests. Charlie Knox seems to like you, though God knows why. You do nothing but bother him from the moment he sets foot in the door. Man just wants a drink and there you are making a nuisance of yourself."

Her voice broke.

Looking at his pale, peaceful face once more, she rose and placed her hand to her breast. Her eyes, angry and bright, rose to the ceiling. "Oscar, you idiot man."

In the dark of dreams, the boy dreamt of a lone voice singing.

* * *

Thanks chaps! Thoughts? :D


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: **I don't own it, nope. No siree bob.

Thanks to the wonderful and endlessly talented **ThousandSunnyLyon** for her beta work – she is a classy writer and person, so check her out. If you like Knox, make sure and scope out (and review! :p) a smashing story by Disastergirl called The Pleas of the Crown. Braw.

Also, cheers to megami ze for the lovely gift fic – Snowfall. Sterling, magical stuff.

Thoughts, as always, are appreciated chaps x

* * *

Chris' bar was positively teaming with patrons. Candelabras swayed and jingled, struck by up-flung arms – friends beckoning each other from across the room or calls for more beer. Smoke ghosted across the crowd like a blue shroud, swirling up and out through the whirring vents. The girls were singing _There is a Tavern in the Town_, and the band were already drenched with sweat, fingers slipping from brass trumpet keys and lending more chaos to an already frantic score. The bar itself was lined with men _too_ regular to bother with the entertainment but hungry for the exported liquor from every corner of the known world. Her bartenders, suited in crisp white shirts and bolo ties weren't much for flare and show, but – my god – they could _serve_. Taking six or seven orders at once, they would rush out rounds faster than any bar in town, and Chris loved to hear that merry _ting!_ of the till being constantly slung open and slammed shut again. Money, bliss.

Effortlessly, Emilia slipped through the thronging, pulsing mass, lifting a glass here and slapping a backside there. She really was a top find for Chris: competent, strong and business minded. She was honest enough without being gullible and hard enough without being ruthless. But more than that – most gloriously than anything, for the first time in nearly three weeks, she managed to get Roy to bed – and asleep – at a perfectly sensible time for a four-year-old. Well... before midnight at least. The girl had kept him awake for thirty-six hours, so that when it came to nine o'clock that night, the mite couldn't keep his eyes open any longer. And now three hours later, he was still in bed – out of trouble and out of her hair.

Chris sighed happily to herself, letting her eyes run over the vibrant scene of _her_ creation before they snagged on a figure at the bar – Charlie Knox. Hunched forward, his head could barely be seen past his broad shoulders, but she would recognise those drab clothes and cheap shoes anywhere. Here she thought that doctors would have cash to spare for decent garb.

"There's a hang-dog expression if ever I saw one," she said, placing herself on the high seat beside him. She nodded to Peggy who promptly poured a healthy glass of port for her mistress.

Knox, embarrassed slightly, smiled and leant back in his seat. His gaze slid sideways to greet Chris before he glanced forward again. He rubbed at the bridge of his nose and chuckled shyly, like he'd been rumbled.

"Ah-" he moaned, "long day."

Chris lit up a cigarette and slid the case across to him. "Shouldn't you be in bed then? Boy like you's got to get his beauty sleep – you don't want to mess up in surgery. Somebody could lose a leg."

He grinned ruefully and nodded, slipping a thin smoke from the packet and fingering it thoughtfully before lighting up. Chris knew he wasn't really a smoker – but hell – there were times when everyone needed a drag.

"Well, I'll just sit here quietly," Chris shrugged. "Don't mind me."

Knox groaned, a smirk shaping the lines of his mouth – _too_ sour for his young age. He adjusted his glasses. "Just," he coughed, "trouble in paradise, you might say."

Chris couldn't lie, she was shocked when she first met the young doctor and learned that he was married. She always thought doctor-types were supposed to live free and easy in their twenties, pretend to calm enough to get married in their thirties and keep up their more than avant-garde habits until their dying day, safe behind the cover of their respectable profession. She knew that's what _she_ would do.

She'd met the girl once – Knox's wife – and she was nice, if a little plain. Though, had the surgeon waited until he was a little older, Chris was sure he would have settled with someone altogether more interesting. Shame.

"Oh?" was all Chris said, taking an overly innocent sip of her drink.

Nothing got past Knox, and he lent her a considerably disparaging look. He took a long drag on his cigarette and spoke though the exhale. "Sarah is pregnant." He shook his head. "We didn't mean to – we were sure... Well, you know how it goes..."

Chris barked out a laugh. "_Do_ I? What's happening to the world? All these kids dropping from the sky. Between dead brothers and... rolls in the hay, we'll be like the last train to Xing soon – no room to breathe for screaming children."

She wished she hadn't said it, she really did – because almost like some mythological prayer, her words seemed to beckon her own infantile god of trouble. A new energy filled the space around her; patrons glancing down and customers awkwardly steering themselves round the small presence currently _marching_ towards her.

Roy's hair was tousled wildly and his crumpled pyjamas were much too long for him, but to his credit, he only stumbled once in his angry approach. His pale face was flushed with just-waking or anger, or both, and his furrowed brow gave him a humorously adult look – an old man who's just found out the bookmakers has been closed down.

Seeing that it was just that _Oscar Mustang boy_, the majority of the patrons turned back to their own entertainment, but a few curious eyes watched on. The band quieted and the chatter became suddenly obvious and excited. Then with an explosion of cheers, the musicians broke into the frantic chirping of _Three Little Maids From School_. The girls hooted, hitched up their skirts and eyed up the audience like a pack of lionesses faced with an abattoir.

Chris and Knox both turned in their seats and looked down at Roy. The boy's eyes darted to Knox for a moment, perhaps concerned about his unexpected audience. Any worry left him the next moment though as he grunted and swiftly thumped Chris on the leg. Both she and Knox jumped at the attack, Knox almost choking on his last mouthful of booze. The boy changed tack and pushed her thigh, hard. His two small hands were buried into the folds of her skirt, then his left fist came back and thumped her again.

"Hey!" Knox warned, setting his drink down.

Roy spun to him. And thumped him too.

"Roy!" Chris exclaimed, and tried to catch his wrist but his right hand came up and caught her with a nasty scrab. "You little-"

The boy's black eyes were ferocious and it was only when she met them fully, and really looked, that Chris realised he seemed, not bratty, but genuinely furious with her. He sniffled and swiped his arm across his nose.

"You're not supposed to," he reprimanded, his voice low and nearly entirely lost in the hum of the bar.

"Not supposed to _what, _child?" Chris asked, exasperated already. She was definitely growing less able to cope with this kind of behaviour. Besides, if the law showed up now, they would be rather dismayed to see a four-year-old trotting around in a temper.

Roy's frown deepened even further, hurt clearly, by her having misunderstood. It seemed his best answer was a reiteration of his earlier punishment. He stamped on her toe viciously.

"You're not _supposed_ to!" he screamed hoarsely. A few drinkers looked around, then down, at the minuscule terror. They smirked and rolled their eyes, turning back to their conversation again.

Before Chris even had a chance to react, Knox had slipped off his stool and pounced forward. He swept the boy up in his strong arms and held him aloft, eliciting a sort of 'meep!' sound from the child.

"You stop that this instant, you hear?" he whispered harshly.

Too busy struggling to listen, Roy kicked his legs in a savage effort to strike at the doctor's chest and face. Knox continued to chastise him, wrestling all the while, but in the next beat, Roy – slippery and sly as he was (didn't Chris know it!) - held his arms straight up and slid out of his pyjama shirt. He hit his feet hard then plopped onto his backside and stared up at the two adults, panting.

"Come here you!" Emilia shouted, coming up behind him. "You little _shit,_" she hissed.

Roy gasped, spinning to see her racing for him and in an instant he was on his bare feat, waiting for her approach like a goalkeeper. She lunged for him but he was already tottering off, ducking and swerving through swarming legs – bare-chested and unbelievably excited.

Chris and Emilia shared a moment of tired resignation, then began the hunt anew, Knox hot on their heels. They forced smiles at the patrons as they passed in a gratuitous 'everything is perfectly normal' manner. Nearing the front of the crowd, half deafened by the band and cheering customers, Emilia thrust her finger forward, singling out their quarry.

Roy's shock of black hair disappeared underneath one of the girl's skirts.

"Get 'im!" Chris shouted, her excitement surprising even herself, as she made her exit through a door marked 'private'.

The hunting party lurched forward, Knox aiming to intercept Roy as he crawled towards the other end of the stage. In the flurry of kicking legs, chopsticks and snapped fans, the child vanished off into the wings.

Where Chris was waiting...

Roy skidded, lost his balance and hit the wooden floor body-length with a hard slap that did absolutely nothing to deter him. He sprang up and darted round Chris, but seeing Emilia waiting, smug and victorious, at the only other entrance to the stage, he soon lost his verve.

Chris felt like she was about to collapse. She abhorred physical exercise. She made a wet sounds and smacked her lips. "Roy...," she wheezed, as dangerously as she possibly could while working on one lung.

Knox came in through the door behind Emilia and flanked her, further blocking any escape routes.

Roy turned this way and that, his boney chest working hard from the chase – out, in, out, in – as quickly as a trapped bird. He shrank back from Emilia's glare, rubbing one foot across the top of the other.

Knox chanced a step forward, holding Emilia back with an outstretched arm.

"Okay kid, you've had your fun," he said, prodding his finger at Roy. There was absolutely no illusion here – this father-to-be really needed that drink.

Roy huffed his hair from his face and eyed Knox with puffed, flushed cheeks. If Chris didn't know any better, she would have said the child had a few drinks himself. What other four-year-old could fashion a demeanour _that_ surly?

"_Roy-boy please,"_ Chris cut in, "I'm tired. It's a Friday night and I just want to entertain my guests. Charlie there -" she pointed at Knox who cocked his head, curious and a little nervous about what the frank woman would come out with. "Is trying to forget he's got a little hallion like you on the way, and Emilia..."

Emilia ran her finger along her throat in a slitting gesture.

"Emilia loves you very much," Chris finished weakly.

The band wound down their number and struck up a slow air.

Caught in their weird stand-off, the music was quite fitting. The lamps in the back-of-house lounge lent the whole affair a sort of vaudeville interlude of calm. Roy, Chris realised with an unprecedented maternal ache, was positively trembling.

"Roy baby -" she began, but was stopped short as Emilia – finally at the end of her tether – sprung forward like a panther.

Roy squeaked and dived off. Emilia was already falling on him though and in a last ditch attempt to save himself, he made for an old davenport resting against the wall. For a boy so small and quick, there wasn't much squirming required but when he was only halfway under, Emilia managed to catch him by the seat of his pyjamas.

Little Roy though, curious and cute as a fox, had watched enough salamanders escape the clutches of cats to conceive his next move. Bucking just slightly, the trousers easily slipped past his hips and so Emilia, thinking she had him, had really only succeeded in acquiring a pair of cotton maroon pyjama bottoms. Roy, for his part, pressed himself against the wall, far under the huge desk.

Emilia swiped her arm under the desk, clutching for even the smallest part of Roy to grab hold of.

"Ow!" she yelped and withdrew her hand, holding it to her breast. Four thin scratches marked her skin. "Little bastard..." she bit out.

Chris and Knox knelt either side of her and the three of them squinted to see under the desk. Two points of light stared back at them.

Chris sighed and stood. The other two adults followed suit. She rubbed her forehead and looked back towards the stage entrance.

"Knox," she said with eyes closed, "forgive me for saying so, but I highly recommend you and Sarah find a good psychiatrist. You should have about, what, seven months or so."

Knox removed a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed his brow. "I was just thinking the same thing."

Emilia held her hand up by way of demonstration. "That -" she pointed her finger to the davenport, "is not normal. Let's hope the damn thing has woodworm and collapses on him."

She stormed off, barely managing to resist slamming the door behind her.

Knox and Chris fell into a thoughtful silence during which Roy, thinking everyone departed, chanced a look of reconnaissance. Chris glanced down just in time to see him bump his head as he retracted it swiftly, issuing another husky squeak.

"I can't do this," Chris said, sounding oddly light. She looked at Knox who returned her gaze with sympathy. "I can't. Charlie, what am I going to do?"

Knox sighed sharply and checked his watch. "Look Chris, you've had a long couple of weeks. Why don't you go out front and try to enjoy yourself and I'll stay here with... him – make sure he doesn't make a pyre out of all your furniture and throw Emilia on the top." He smiled wryly at her. "Besides, I suppose I best get some practice in now. Not to mention the fact that Sarah told me not to come home tonight."

Chris stared at him for a few hard seconds, then her shoulders slumped and she nodded – smirking. "Kids, huh?"

"Kids..."

"Okay, Charlie. Yeah, okay." She squeezed his arm and moved to a cabinet, picking out her finest whiskey in the house. "This," she held it aloft, "is yours. Knock yourself out." She threw her thumb to the davenport. "Knock him out too if you can."

"Thanks Chris," Knox said, taking the bottle and a tumbler from her. He poured himself a generous glass and moved to sit down tiredly to the right of the mahogany desk.

From the door, Chris called back to him. "There'll be a room upstairs for you when you're done. Just speak to Emilia."

He was a good guy, Knox, and he deserved a break. Chris was quite happy to give it to him. She waved once and left him alone (but not quite) in the plush lounge.

* * *

Knox took a sip of his whiskey and rested his head back against the wall, savouring the aged amber liquid - glorious. He cast his eyes downward at the lip of the davenport, but there was no sign that anyone was under there at all.

"So kid," he said, and knew he was heard for there was a light bump from where Roy – with interest piqued – must have raised his head. "Eh – what's going on?"

From the front of the house, the sweet sounds of _Oh! My Darling Clementine_ coloured the room.

Knox supposed back here it wasn't actually so bad. He would prefer to be somewhere a little quieter anyway. It would give him time to think about poor Sarah. He had been so _mad_, not at her, but at their circumstances. He wasn't ready to be a father, he wasn't even sure if he was ready to be a husband. Why were all these things foisted on him – first the common, implied rule to find a wife, and now this. But he knew he was being selfish – childish even. He put himself in these circumstances, no one else. And now his wife was at home; confused and upset because of his big mouth. He really wasn't mad at her...

Knox swore and finished his drink in one go. He fetched himself the bottle of whiskey and poured another glass, lulled into the same dark thoughts. The band played on, song after cheery song, and hungry hoots from the thronging audience signalled _particularly_ suggestive manoeuvres by the girls. Yeap, he was definitely better off away from the pandemonium.

"Mr. Charlie?" a husky whisper drifted from under the desk.

Knox almost forgot that he wasn't alone. "Just call me Charlie, Roy."

There was a thoughtful quiet, then - "Charlie?"

Knox smiled and took another sip. "Yeap?"

"Sorry."

A pale hand emerged from under the davenport.

And unexpectedly, Knox felt his eyes sting. He reached down and took the hand – so tiny in his own – and shook it once.

"Don't worry about it, kid."

There was a scritching sound as Roy pulled his hand back across the carpet. A moment later, he wriggled out from under the davenport and stood coyly in front of Knox, wearing nothing but a pair of briefs. He was shaking, and Knox could see clearly, the muscles in his jaw working.

"Hey – fetch me that blanket over there, will you?" the man asked.

Roy looked over his shoulder and spotting the thick brown throw, obliged. He dragged it across the floor and considered dropping it onto Knox's knees before he thought better of it. He inched forward and offered it, a slight smile turning his lips – pleased as he was to be helping Knox out.

Knox returned the smile and threw the blanket about Roy's thin shoulders – too slight really for a boy his age – then slapped his knee, inviting the child to sit.

Roy grinned and shuffled over awkwardly with arms restrained by the blanket. He fell back onto Knox's lap and spotting the whiskey, turned his nose up at it. Knox threw back his head and laughed, hearty and genuine, at the boy's characteristic look of chagrin.

"You don't like it so much, huh?" he asked and laughed again when Roy shook his head vigourously. "Okay." He set the glass aside and wrapped his arms around the frail shoulders. Roy smiled up at him, then with a little gasp, cocked his head – clearly caught in some flare of epiphany. How frightfully dark and assessing the child's eyes were.

Roy wiggled an arm free and very gingerly, nervously, reached a hand up. He plucked off Knox's glasses and held them gently out of the way. Knox watched on as the boy tilted his head the other way, squinting his eyes, _searching_ his face for _something_. Then it occurred to him with a quiet kind of horror what was happening – didn't Oscar Mustang, dark haired and tall, bear a passing resemblance to Knox? His stomach plummeted as Roy's eyes dulled with the knowledge that no matter which way he looked at it – Knox was no Oscar Mustang. His dad was well and truly gone. The child sat back and sighed, his eyes drifting downward to look languidly into the middle distance. The glasses were dropped forgotten from loose fingers.

Knox swallowed, all of sudden feeling the true weight of the boy encased in his arms. Fatherhood offered a new kind of terror now, he realised: the terror of not having the chance to be a father at all.

"Hey Roy," Knox said quietly, resting his chin on the top of the child's head. "Why'd you get so sore with your auntie Chris just now?"

Roy pulled in a breath, his head raising Knox's chin up, and pushed it out again. "When I sleep... she wasn't supposed to go away, when I sleep."

His voice was scarcely more than a whisper and impossibly dark for a child his age.

"There was a bang..."

That made sense, Knox supposed. At the beginning of the band's second act they'd done that Western number with a starting pistol -

"Oh my -" Knox whispered, realisation blossoming in his gut.

He dipped his head to look at Roy who continued to stare off, his eyes heavily lidded – some ambiguous emotion filling them.

"Roy," Knox coaxed. He tilted the boy's head towards him with a finger to his chin. "Hey Roy, look at me..."

Black eyes crept up to meet his. Knox breathed deeply, trying and failing to keep his throat from constricting.

The police had assumed that Roy had been with his parents when they were shot. That he'd been standing between them and remained there after they were killed. Afterall, when they entered the house, the boy was sandwiched between the pair, his head resting on his mother's chest. The scarlet smear of blood from the door back to where they found Jun Xia's body was accepted as being caused by the murderers dragging her further into the house. Surely a boy of four couldn't have managed that...

"Roy...," Knox began, strong hands holding the child's shoulders as firmly, and lovingly as they could. "Were you asleep when your mummy and daddy were hurt?"

To his horror, the child nodded.

"You pulled mummy back from the door, so she could be with daddy?" His voice was shaking now. Roy nodded again, then turned and lay his head against Knox's breast. He took his tiny fist and beat twice in quick succession on the man's chest.

"It was like this..." he whispered, his breath washing across the fabric of Knox's shirt.

_Thump-thump, thump-thump,_ his fist beat out that carnal rhythm on Knox's front: a heartbeat.

"I heard it go..."

_Thump-thump_, a little slower now. _Thump-thump_, winding down. _Thump-thump_, almost at a stop.

_Thump-thump_. Roy's fist ceased its movements and rested on the space just over Knox's own heart. He was shivering.

Knox hadn't realised he was crying until a fat tear splashed on the ridge of Roy's ear. The child rubbed the wetness there and slowly, drew his eyes up to Knox's. He saw the red eyes, just as Chris' must have been at the funeral, and biting his lip, he reached up to wipe a tear away.

"Sorry," he said, and rested his head against Knox's neck.

Knox patted the back of Roy's head, letting his fingers remain threaded through his thick black hair. So that's why he hated sleeping so much. And why he was so _furious_ to have been tricked and left alone. The last time he'd settled down for a proper night's sleep, well, he'd woken up an orphan. Had listened - in fact - as the life flowed out of his mother. A diabolical twist to a terrible, unendurable thing.

The door burst open. "Well!" Chris boomed, looking energised and renewed. "You'll never guess who's just arrived from back out East." She rushed into the room and checked the lodger book to see which rooms were free. "How are you getting on? Oh! You got him out – that's good."

"Chris," said Knox. Roy was trembling in his arms, but _still _no tears.

With her back turned, Chris continued unabashed as she leafed through the lodge book. "Albert Grumman from East City. - he's going to be in town for a few days. He's a Lieutenant Colonel now, the swine. Got his kid, Ellie and her man with him too – sour chap. Terrible hair. Hawkeye's his name. You know any Hawkeyes from out East, Charlie?" She moved off and excitedly gathered up an armful of linen from a hamper. "But they have their little girl with them and she's enough to change your opinion about kids, I'm telling you." She threw her head back and barked out a laugh. "She is _just_ a bean! I could eat her. I could!"

"Chris -" Knox repeated.

"Huh?" Chris turned, and for the first time saw Knox sitting against the wall, eyes damp and arms full of four-year-old.

Knox raised his eyebrows at her and held his arms wide in a 'what do you make of this then?' gesture.

Chris held the linen to her side and leant on one leg. "What's wrong with _you_ two?"

Roy finally turned in his arms, pushing himself back against his chest. His tiny fingers fidgeted with Knox's wedding ring.

"I honestly don't know where to begin..."

* * *

Thanks chums x


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: I don't own it, so I don't.**

Thanks to the wondrous Thousandsunnylyon for her beta work and ongoing support with all things FMA – She's a wonderful author in her own right and well worth a gander - mwah!

This is it: the last in The Rascal Boy cycle. I sincerely hope you enjoy it, and thanks for waiting! I'm in the middle of a delightfully complicated and protracted move, so apologies for the delay in getting this up.

*the formatting's gone all weird on the poem - so sorry it's a pain to read... That's what I get for being lazy and just copying and pasting!

NB - Here Dead We Lie hasn't been abandoned either!

Also, please do check out the deliciously dark new fic by disastergirl – _Blood Brothers_... ach, sure you can't beat a bit of Roy vs The Forces of Evil, can you? :)

Cheers for reading folks – tally ho!

* * *

_Rich, cherry-scented smoke wafted through Roy's open bedroom door; a smell the child had long come to know his father by. It filled his nose moments before the man arrived, and lingered – fondly – long after he left a room. Roy loved to sit and watch his dad labour lovingly over his briar pipe: plucking little tufts of tobacco from the jar and pushing them far into the bowl with strong, capable fingers. With the click and flare of the lighter, Roy marvelled at how the strands caught and glowed with his father's mere breathing in, and wished desperately to be older so that he could try it. To him, _this_ was what it meant to be a man - to be strong and wise._

"_Well lad," his father said, gently placing the pipe on the tallboy by the door. "You all ready for bed?"_

_Roy nodded and scooted over, making room for his dad – a man that seemed to him bigger than the world and all the planets._

_Oscar Mustang sat and smiled down at Roy, who often feigned shyness at bedtime and was now hiding nose-deep beneath the soft, blue covers. Outside, one car passed and the neighbour's bellicose spaniel barked hoarsely. It was always barking._

_Roy whined as his fringe was pushed back by calloused hands. Sentimentality turned his father's eyes to little dark creases. "Your hair's a state," he laughed._

"_Oscar," Roy whinged, his voice muffled by the blankets. _

_His father encouraged in him the unconventional habit of calling him by name, which Roy did – happily. It's what his friends called him after all: the quick men and women who visited their house from time to time. But his mother was always 'mummy'. It was proper that way. _

"_Oscar... can I have..." Roy trailed off, weighing his father's patience with his shining black eyes, "_five_ stories?"_

_Oscar scowled and pinched the little globe of his son's belly beneath the sheets. "Five!" he exclaimed in mock incredulity. "You're getting cocky, chap. I bet you thought if you asked for five you would get at least three, huh?"_

_Roy popped his head up from the covers and his grin said it all._

"_Thought as much." Oscar ruffled his son's fringe and sat back against the headboard. Roy, in a bid to be manly, tried the same only to be pushed gently back to lying by a strong hand. "A-pa-pap..." the man chided softly. As an extra precaution, he tucked Roy in further – good and tight._

"_A new one!" Roy chirped, wriggling in his place – little legs kicking excitedly, keenly. "Oscar, a new one, Oscar!"_

"_Roy Mustang!" His mother's voice sounded from just across the landing. She had the uncanny ability, Roy realised some time ago, to move about the house without sound. _

"_Sleep child!" She called, and Roy could imagine her folding the fluffy laundry and placing one bundle preciously atop the other. In the morning, she would pull a warm, fresh towel from the hotpress and wrap it around him, singing in her accented, delicate voice._

_His father indulged him in a look that said: we'd better do what she says, and fast._

"_Okay, little man," said Oscar, his dark eyebrows raised in question. "A new one?"_

_Roy nodded vigourously, legs kicking again, and he could tell by the way his father clenched his jaw that he was trying to recall some new tale to tell. It didn't matter much to Roy though. He could listen to his dad talk all night, even if it was just about the neighbour's dog or the price of oil._

"_Alright... okay... let's see... what about the time your mother and I missed the last train from Sin Ji?"_

_Roy, despite his best efforts, must have made a face, because his father sighed and folded his arms, his brows knit in concentration._

"_Heard it, huh?" he asked his son, who nodded with a benevolent smile. He understood why his dad suggested that story, it was a really good one. "Some Kipling maybe?"_

_Roy stopped kicking. "Kip lean?"_

_A laugh: hearty, chest expanding, then. "Kip-_ling_. He's a poet, mind, but he's not so bad – not at all. He was just like your dad here..."_

_The boy's eyes lit up as his father continued._

"_Went East when he was sixteen, thinking himself old enough just because he could grow some whiskers. He found his true love in Literature out there, and I found mine in your mother. Well," he chuckled and threw his eyes to the door. "She found me actually."_

_Roy liked the sound of this a great deal. He thought of himself: older and dressed smartly, travelling East to find _his_ true love. So he snaked an arm out, tugged on his father's sleeve and yelled brightly: "I want Kipling!"_

_His mother tutted outside the door, then called in: "Boys!"_

_Roy could tell she wasn't really mad though. He could always hear when she was smiling._

_Oscar rolled his eyes and shook his head. "Oh, I don't know... maybe we should just call it a night..."_

_Call it a night? After that build up? Roy was outraged. He whined and jiggled furiously where he lay. _

"_Please, Kipling. Oscar, Kipling! Daddy...!" He caught the sly smirk that shaped his father's lips, and promptly paused his struggling and huffing. He didn't much like being made a fool of, especially at bedtime when he was most vulnerable to his father's tricks and games. "_Oscar..._"_

_With a guilty-come-amused look that Roy sometimes mimicked in his mirror, his father began. Roy sank into the blankets, closed his eyes and loved his father so fiercely his chest burned._

"_If you can keep your head when all about you_

_Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;_

_If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,_

_But make allowance for their doubting too;_

_If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,_

_Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,_

_Or being hated, don't give way to hating,_

_And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise..."_

_Roy chanced one eye open and shut it again swiftly, seeing his father was in serious 'bedtime' mode now._

"_If you can dream - and not make dreams your master;_

_If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim;_

_If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster_

_And treat those two impostors just the same..."_

"_What's a - _im_postor?" Roy asked, trying very hard to keep his eyes closed._

"_It's eh, like someone who's pretending to be something they're not..."_

"_Like _Loo-pendant_ General Bradley!" Roy cried. He was very proud of himself for having recalled such an important and worldly fact._

_Oscar froze. _

_Roy felt the muscles in his father's side tense and he ghosted his eyes upwards to regard the man. He felt suddenly very naughty, like when he dropped a glass or scribbled on the walls._

_Oscar took Roy's shoulder and looked at him, eyes harsh – or scared. Roy couldn't decide which, but he hated being the focus of that gaze._

"_Roy," Oscar said, his jaw working. "You must never repeat what you hear at our parties. Not ever. You shouldn't even be listening." He shook his head. "The General is a very bad man, son."_

_Roy swallowed. He pulled his arm back under the covers and even though he tried very hard, he whimpered – just a little – at his grand error. He sank further under the blankets."Sorry, Oscar. Sorry... But you're... you... just – _You_ said it... You said it, Oscar..."_

"_Promise me, Roy, that you won't speak of these things ever. Not even to me," Oscar said. His eyes darted back to the open doorway, where the sounds of his mother busying herself had stopped. "This is very important. You must learn to hold your water, do you understand? You have to keep things like that to yourself."_

_Fingering the edge of his pyjama top under the blankets, Roy nodded sadly. He only wanted to say something smart and wise. "I promise."_

_His father squeezed his shoulder then sat back again, forcing relaxation. "Good boy."_

_And though Oscar continued with the poem – voice as steady and sonorous as always – Roy's heart trembled. Somehow, shockingly, danger had entered his room for those few brief seconds. The poem, beautiful and curious as it sounded to him – began to feel like something more than a poem, like there was something more to it; that it _meant_ more. Roy was reminded of the Drachman dolls on the mantle-piece downstairs; one doll hidden inside the other until you reached the strange little nugget-woman in the middle. "The real deal – no mystery," his father had said of her._

"_If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken_

_Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,_

_Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,_

_And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools..."_

_Oscar sighed, and scrubbed a hand down his face. Roy flushed with embarrassment. He didn't mean to rattle his dad – he didn't._

"_It's okay," Roy said softly, wishing that he hadn't insisted on Kipling at all. Or any story. He noticed the thin trail of smoke no longer rose up from the pipe. "I'll sleep now. I'll go to sleep. It's okay."_

_His father smiled then pressed his lips together, eyes sliding down to regard Roy. "Calm down, chap," he said through another, more buoyant smile. "This is the best bit. This is the bit you're going to grow up and remember and think, 'Wasn't my dad a cracking fellow?'"_

_Roy wriggled closer and pressed himself as tightly as he could against his father's side. He stared hard at him, took his cue and tried to etch into his memory every line and detail of this very moment._

"_If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,_

_Or walk with kings - nor lose the common touch,_

_If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,_

_If all men count with you, but none too much;_

_If you can fill the unforgiving minute_

_With sixty seconds' worth of distance run -_

_Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,_

_And - which is more - you'll be a Man, my son..."_

_Oscar finished quietly, like a clock winding down. With one hand, he cupped Roy's head and leaning low, kissed him 'good night.'_

_And for the world, Roy didn't want him to leave, or for the light in the hall to blinker out as it inevitably would._

**OoO**

_Two hours later, the boy was yanked free of a fitful sleep by the vicious sound of barking. Not the neighbour's dog as he first thought, but a fire cracker. No, a gun - _

_Five reports in total, and for him, his whole world was extinguished: a blink in the echoing darkness._

_

* * *

_

"_It's Oscar, Chris. I had to call you as soon as I heard. It's Jun, she - your little brother has grown up. I'm going to be a Daddy, Chrissy! Can you believe it? Me! - a Dad!"_

Someone yelled on the street outside and Chris woke with a start. Oscar vanished along with the cotton warmth of dreams, leaving nothing of him behind – not even an echo. Her heart ached, stirred by the memory of his reckless enthusiasm_, _his bright burning self. Her little brother.

Chris groaned and cracked one eye open, spiting the morning and the cool light it threw between the gap in her curtains. Issuing a sigh-come-yawn, she turned where she lay and paused, her eyes falling on a small figure in the blue gloom.

Roy was sitting, back propped against her door, doodling busily in his neat, paperbacked sketch book. Beside him lay a glass, a ruler and an eraser, all within easy reach. In his concentration, he failed to notice her wakefulness, but instead, tilted his head this way and that, as his pencil continued scratching against the paper.

In the wake of Knox's disclosure, Chris knew why the boy was there. Guarding, watching – confident in the belief that his presence meant the absence of bad things. It was faith only a child could have in the power of their own simple being.

Chris jumped as the boy growled and snatched the eraser from the carpet. He scrubbed furiously at the page, the door behind him rattling in its frame with his efforts, and only when he looked wholly satisfied that the error was undone did he relax his shoulders and pick up the pencil again. He sniffed and looked up.

Chris smiled. "Good morning," she said.

Roy stared at her, stared at his book, then back at her. Away from the silence between them, birds fluttered and sang outside, and the bright noises of a waking kitchen chimed from downstairs. Chris coughed.

"Is Charlie Knox still around?"

A sigh. "No."

"And how are you today, Roy-boy?"

Quite primly, Roy set the sketch pad aside, then the pencil, and stood. Still staring, he quietly retrieved all his belongings, peeled the door open with one toe, and left.

"Huh."

Rolling up and onto her side, Chris flicked a loose strand of hair from her face and grabbed for her watch. 7am.

"Well shit," she said, and just seven seconds later, lit up.

**OoO**

After her strange awakening, Chris put the day away handsomely, catching up with with her old friend Albert Grumman over a fierce dose of expensive Eastern cigarettes and the occasional single malt. Now a Lieutenant Colonel, Grumman sported his newly grown-in moustache almost as proudly as his stars, and he took great pleasure in sharing all the gossip from Chris' old stomping ground. Doris Sweeney got fat, Libby Gordon got poor and Tommy Matheson – an erstwhile lover of Chris' and accountant of questionable virtues – got thrown in the clap for siphoning money from the state treasury. She couldn't say she wasn't pleased with the news. Tommy really was a dog. And ginger to boot.

After lunch and full of the warmth of a couple of whiskies, Chris tried to coax Roy from his room with promises of sticky iced fingers and cream soda, but he was having none of it. He declared from the other side of the door that he was doing art, and if Chris wasn't mistaken, even told her to 'shoo'. When she attempted to bargain with the company of Grumman's granddaughter, Roy sounded positively horrified at the notion, calling the poor babe 'snottery' and 'fat'. He affirmed this by slamming his back hard against the door.

Chris responded with a completely mature and not at all uncalled for, '_You're_ snottery', before slipping off and away from her moody inheritance.

Now, ensconced in the dining room full to the rafters with hungry guests, Chris handed her duties over to the capable Emilia while she took a seat with her visitors. A beaming Bertie Grumman sat to her left, chatting to one of her younger waitresses with his particular brand of clumsy charm. Across the round table from Chris, the straggly Berthold Hawkeye was nursing a glass of water – cold eyes judging. To his left was his wife Ellie, and on her knee, the plump loveliness of little Elizabeth Hawkeye. The girl, all of two years old, was making good headway into a patter of butter, scooping off small mounds and pawing them into her mouth.

Between Ellie and Chris, with chin resting on the white linen and fingers curled around the lip of the table, Roy was under strict surveillance. He'd been grouchy all day and had cast more than the occasional moody glance at the delightful Hawkeye girl. Chris couldn't be sure, but she'd be willing to bet, Roy Mustang – home schooled and desperately aloof – hadn't spent much time around other children. His sketchpad, for the moment at least, lay forgotten by his side plate.

Starters were presented and devoured with gusto. Only Hawkeye pushed aside his half finished portion with a meek turn of semi-apologetic lips. Roy had his usual fill of steamed carrot batons, whining and squirming in his place when Emilia tried to slide anything else onto his plate. The adults laughed while the diminutive gent scowled, and the toddler, on a different planet entirely, mashed her own small plate of vegetables into an inviting brown paste. She offered some to her mother with a squeaky, "A bih?"

In the warm wash of the evening summer sun, plates were collected and chatter filled the room like an alighting flock of birds. Waitresses reset the tables for mains and filled wine glasses here and there, darting in their splendour: a school of bright fish. _Madame Christmas' _may not have been the _Central Merchant_ but she never scrimped on dinner, or wine. Fresh game from the New Forest and syrupy, full bodied wine sourced from the abundant lowlands of Southern Amestris – her menu was just about as modest as her girls were.

Though, Chris supposed, it wouldn't always be to everyone's tastes.

"Your guests, Ms Christmas, are comfortable having their dinner served by these women? Girls?" Hawkeye asked quietly, ignoring the stern look of his young wife. "It seems strange, mixing both... activities."

Chris smiled. Warm, natural. "Mr Hawkeye, there are 120 eateries to choose from in Central's merchant district alone, and so I can only assume that if my patrons take a table here, they're comfortable with the conditions. At least!" She picked up a stray carrot baton and offered it to Roy in jest. He refused with an incredulous shake of the head, kicking the underside of the table with his patent shoes. "Besides, they're both desires of the flesh, aren't they? Perfectly natural."

Hawkeye cleared his throat. "Some would call that vice."

"Some?" Chris took a sip of wine and winked at Grumman who smiled back with twinkling eyes. "Or you?"

Again, like so many times now, Chris felt the hungry black eyes of her nephew weighing on her. He'd taken up the cold carrot after all, and was nibbling on it delicately as he watched the interchange.

"People of a certain propriety."

Ellie laughed suddenly; a plosive, uncomfortable chirp – well practised – and leant towards Chris, almost crushing her daughter against the table as she did so. The girl was made of stronger stuff it seemed and pushed back, her chubby fingers wrinkling the table cloth and brushing against the neat pages of Roy's sketchbook. Roy's eyes shot to the book, his fingers skittering at the fringe of the linen cloth.

"Please ignore Berthold, Ms Mustang," said Ellie, resting her hand on top of Chris'. "Your place is lovely – much nicer than anything in Sion Mills. I've never seen so many types of wine!"

Hawkeye coughed and leaning forward on one elbow, pointed a boney finger at Roy. His shoulder jutted against his thin shirt and the pale flash of a hard collarbone stole an appearance.

"You raise that boy here?" He asked, eyes bright, critical, shrewd. Roy, still nursing his carrot, looked up to Chris.

"My nephew. I try." She shrugged. "A drove of women dressed in their summer slips doesn't bother him much. He tends to take no heed."

"Art," Roy affirmed with a mumble then held his grubby hands aloft to be wiped clean. His eyes slid sideways, watching with a deep set frown how Riza struggled in her mother's grasp, desperate to reach the table again now the woman had sat back.

Chris wiped Roy's hands roughly, dropping the dirty napkin into Emilia's palm as she flashed by like a minnow. "We'll see how long that lasts. We might have to lock him up when he hits twelve if my brother was anything to go by. Consider sending him to a monastery in Liore or something... Maybe shepherding..."

Grumman laughed in his cawing, gentle manner and slapped the table with both palms. "Oscar Mustang: oh my stars, he was something else entirely. I'd never seen a chap with that many handkerchiefs... I didn't even know aquamarine was a colour until I met Mustang. Not to mention that bloody pipe!" He shook his head and clicked his tongue – a tic, laden with regret. "He really was something else, your brother. Something else..."

It was strange, Chris thought, how her brother's death stole upon her even in the rush of a busy dining room. As Grumman dipped his head with his half remembered sadness, a cotton lull fell about the table – gentle, soft – the silent shroud of snowfall at night time. Hawkeye leant back in his seat, lifting his glass but not quite managing to take a drink, while Ellie wrestled with the oblivious toddler in her lap. Scents of the main course, full and spicy, wafted into the room and the chatter of the other guests sounded as though they were all under water, so distant and irrelevant.

A light jingling broke through the noise, and it took Chris a few confused moments to work out what it was. Her eyes found the glasses on the table, where a small quake was making them jitter against the cutlery. Beside her, Roy was trembling. Not violently, not notably, but there he was, filled to the throat with that same unnameable energy he'd carried since that awful night. Small white fists bunched the table cloth.

The baby grabbed. The bough broke.

In an ungainly swoop, Riza's chubby arm clipped her mother's glass and toppled it. Wine spattered – gushed and covered the bright white linen with a vidid flood of red. Roy's pristine sketchbook, proudly covered with crisp brown backing paper was sodden in moments. It was a deep, uncanny stain of burgundy ruin.

The table jolted, as Roy – panther quick and vicious – swiped at the girl. A nasty, clawing strike that caught her soft curls and pulled them downward with a violent jerk. Riza squealed in her mummy's embrace, wee arms windmilling to loosen herself from the dark child's savage hold.

A collective gasp followed by the boy's name chorused in shock, echoed around the table.

Leaning back to allow their mains to be set, the guests paused – curious eyes, _knowing_ eyes staring at 'Mustang's boy.' Chris' new, complicated pet. They'd heard about the poor lamb – read about the whole thing in the papers. Terrible thing. Oh! A tragedy. But wasn't the man stupid, sticking his nose in where it didn't belong? And what was the woman thinking? That sly looking immigrant from far across the desert. No cause at all to be involved in things like that.

Roy released Riza with a hard grunt and harder shove. Chris – panicked and embarrassed – snatched for him, but he was away, sliding from his seat and pushing out from between the chairs. Distantly, giddily, Ellie Hawkeye was saying, "It's alright, she's okay! Oh, she's okay! Please!" while Grumman struggled to free himself from his place.

A beat later, a deafening crash shook the room. Some plates shattered while others rolled off, coiling in tighter and tighter circles until they settled with a dull rattle. Piles of steaming food clung to the carpet and now the whole room was gasping, the whole room was staring.

There was Roy, crouched amongst the chaos, shadowed by the figure of Emilia stood indignantly above him. In her right hand, only one plate remained. She flung it to the floor with something like a shriek. And there, curled into her mother's breast, Riza Hawkeye screamed on – red face streaked with hot, shocked tears. Chris was stunned. Frozen. Powerless. She couldn't do this. She _couldn't!_

Roy reached forward, kneeling in the warm mess to retrieve one of the fallen plates and muttered a shaky, "Sorry." Then, catching himself, he dropped the plate to offer his hand to Emilia in penance, just like the big men did at his mummy and daddy's funeral.

"Sorry," he said. "Sorry Emmy." He scooted forward and turned the plate the right way up, scooping some of the hot dinner onto it then shaking his stinging fingers to cool them. He caught himself again, wiped his hand on his shorts and offered it to Emilia once more. "Sorry," he repeated. The plate was picked up – both hands now – and dropped again. He tutted, fussing. He tugged at the leg of Emilia's trousers. "Sorry... Emmy, sorry. Emmy... Emmy... sorry..."

Emilia, with eyes ferocious, glared down at Roy and the mess strewn across the floor. Riza's wailing filled the room. Some guests valiantly tried to return to their conversations. Chris staggered to her feet.

"Roy... Child..." she whispered.

"You thick, nasty little boy!" Emilia hissed. "You wretch – always underfoot!"

"Sorry, Emmy..."

The woman lunged for Roy, bore down on him with eyes blazing – hot with unshed tears.

The boy flung his arms to his head and cowered, quivering.

"Mummy!"

It was a carnal, terrified screech. Pure instinct – an childish cry for comfort, for protection. Protection any little boy deserved. A scream into a happier, _safer_ past.

A sound like no other, it shattered the chaos, made nonsense of everything up until then. Everyone froze in their places. Riza's squealing stuttered and quieted: she understood well enough. Ellie's arms held her tighter still.

The silence was crushing, then -

"Mummy?"

Roy's forefinger hooked his lip and he looked about him, wide eyes glistening.

A room full of eyes looked on, paralysed by the grief made incongruous by the lingering smells of roast venison. Emilia pressed a shaking hand to her mouth.

Chris swallowed. Why couldn't she move?

Roy turned on the spot. He approached a stout gentleman. "Mummy?" he asked, as though the man might reveal the woman's whereabouts, produce her from behind a dark magician's curtain. The man shook his head dumbly.

Roy staggered forwards a little and turned again, free hand tugging on the bottom of his fine blue waistcoat.

"Mummy?" He asked the room. A whole restaurant full of adults, and not one of them could find the strength to speak. A few people coughed and cutlery chirped when it was fingered uncomfortably.

Roy cocked his head, one way, then the other. "Mum?" He asked quietly. "Mummy?"

"Oh my," one lady sobbed at the back of the room.

The levee broke. The boy's chin puckered.

"Mummy!" he howled, a long drawn noise like an old tree falling. "Mummy!" Again, screeching, _tearing_ at every soul in the room. He sobbed once, then pulled in a shuddering breath that sounded for the world like an engine failing. One fat tear spilled down his cheek, then another. There came a second, chest-deep sob.

"Chris," a voice whispered.

The woman turned and saw Grumman reaching for her, pushing her from her place.

"Go to him," he said gently. "Chris." He gestured with his hands, a gentle coaxing motion.

Chris tripped forward, totally unaware of the silent, watchful eyes of her guests. Behind her, Riza mewed, clinging to her mother.

"Roy..." Chris said, falling toward him – eyes fixed on the tiny, trembling figure lost amidst a room of distant sympathies.

He was crying now – fully, breathy squawks. "Mummy." The word sputtered out of him, lips shaking. Sobs grew, swelled in his heaving breast.

Before she knew it, Chris had him. She hoisted him up, she clung to him – she pulled him against her breast until her arms strained with the effort. He bawled against her, trying to thrash but failing. She had him now, she had him. There was only her.

"Shh..." she whispered, cooed and cradled.

"No..." he screamed against her. "I want my mummy!" His breath hitched in a strange airless hiccup.

Emilia stood aside, a silent invite. Leave, it said.

Chris moved past her, the tiny body twisting in her clutches, the curved spine shuddering with upset.

Bird-like chatter of speculation raced into the room before she'd even crossed the threshold to the kitchen. Chris failed to notice as she went, the Hawkeye man reach for the wine soaked sketchbook that had been the cause of the whole affair. Grumman moved to Riza and Ellie, arms wide open – look! Everything is okay!

Chris didn't see the ladies fetch their bags, sick of the drama and ready for a drink elsewhere. She didn't see her girls fall upon the mess of food and crockery like an army of ants. Truthfully, she could scarcely _see_ anything at all. Her world was all a-mist, her ears stopped to everything but the sobbing of her brother's only child.

This boy, this enigma of cheek, gall, spit and grief was suddenly, startlingly, her most precious burden.

**OoO**

Smoke – damp and peaty – filtered through the open window; a common scent of the early morning. The girls downstairs would be firing up the boilers for the guests' showers. The pipes would start chirping soon as the central heating sprang to life, and any minute now, the grocery men would begin yelling 'good morning' outside the storeroom door. On his hands and knees, Roy grumbled and slid further under the bed, feeling for something. His fingers brushed, then snagged on the warm leather of a sturdy handle. Leaning back, he pulled out a small suitcase. It was a toy suitcase really; one that came free with the humongous, smartly attired teddy-bear his father bought him just a year previous. Oscar Mustang, spurning a missed opportunity, had cut it loose and gifted it to Roy separately: "You're a man now, chap. Good grief, look at you!"

He'd laughed then, his father, and ruffled his hair in a way that suggested – to Roy at least – that he was still, very much so, just a boy.

Standing sharply, Roy flung the suitcase onto the bed and hopped up after it. Preciously, he snapped open one brass clip, then the other, and teased open the case. His nose stung with the scent of cherry smoke, and Roy groaned at how the smell blended all too quickly with the darker smoke from the open window. Inside the case, nestled on crisp blue tissue paper, was his father's pipe and beside that, his mother's simple bone hair clip. She had been wearing it, he knew, when the bad men came. That was why it was scuffed, stained and broken. The clasp no longer closed. Auntie Chris said it was because his mummy banged her head really hard when she fell.

Auntie Chris.

Roy hissed, cheeks reddening at the stark memories of the previous night. Shame, hot _terrible_ shame, raced up his neck and stung his eyes. Auntie Chris had cried and cried, lying beside him as they fell asleep, sobbing together. She missed Oscar too, and cared for mummy dearly, but now Oscar was gone and mummy was gone. She was so sad, and – Roy thought – _angry_. He said, "I'm sorry," and she had laughed sadly and said, "It's not your fault, baby. Please don't say that. It's not your fault at all."

He had been bold though, and mean. He _was _bold and he _was _mean. He was a bad boy. He'd been a good boy before, but now he was a bad boy.

He cuffed his eyes and hopped back down from the bed, tottering across to the chest of drawers. With a couple of stiff tugs, he yanked his underwear drawer open – because whities were always most important – and pulled out a few pairs. He trotted back and packed them neatly into the open suitcase, being careful not to damage the pipe or the clip.

Auntie Chris was gone when he woke up that morning. She had things to do, Roy imagined, because she was always very busy. People sometimes called him a 'handful', but Auntie Chris' hands were always full of other things: trays, money, bottles, coats... She only had the two hands, and they didn't seem like nearly enough. He was always underfoot – that's what Emilia had said.

He only realised he'd started crying again when a tear dropped onto the tissue paper, darkening it in an outward swelling ring.

Someone knocked at the door.

"Art!" Roy shouted, but his voice sounded full of lies. "Go away!"

The door creaked. Roy turned, and there in the frame was the fair woman from the night before: Ms Ellie.

Her blonde hair was down, and catching the light from the doorway, it looked buttery and soft. Pinching his fingers together behind his back, Roy remembered the feel of the oh-so soft curls of the little girl's hair as he pulled on it. His eyes pricked yet again and he strained to push the lump in his throat back down, deep into his belly.

The woman smiled, dimples showing at the corners of her mouth. "Good morning, Roy," she said. "May I come in?"

Roy looked at the suitcase on the bed and played with the quick of his thumb. He shrugged.

"Are you off somewhere?" She asked, and even though Roy hadn't answered her, she came into the room anyway, one hand still resting on the door.

"Always underfoot," he answered, moving so he stood in front of the suitcase. "I'm a handful. Auntie Chris is very busy."

Ms Ellie simply smiled, warm eyes resting on Roy. He remembered what Oscar looked like when he read his books, concentrating. He thought her look was a lot like that. It made him feel chilly and bare.

She breathed in and held it for a moment. "I have... someone to see you. She has something to tell you," she said. "So maybe you shouldn't run away just yet?"

There was a scratching presence on the other side of the door.

Ms Ellie looked back and called, "Riza?"

Roy's heart leapt: the little girl. He'd hurt her, but she ruined his art. His book. She'd been restless and naughty and knocked that horrid, smelly wine all over his work. His important work. He didn't mean it – he didn't! _She_ was naughty too...

A chubby creature, adorned in a yellow dress that puffed at the bottom, tottered into the room unsteadily. Black shoes that shone in the brisk morning light were a contrast to the bright white socks that frilled just above her ankles. Her white-blonde hair curled around her ears and about the nape of her neck, and there on her right temple were four vicious looking scratch marks.

Roy shrank back. Shame piled on shame. Poor Auntie Chris. Poor baby Riza. Bad, bold Roy.

The girl hand something in her hands, and jerkily, she thrust it at Roy with a noise that sounded like, "Sorry."

He blinked. She repeated herself, looking up to her mother to check if she was doing okay.

"Berthold cleaned it – with alchemy. He didn't believe your aunt when she said it was yours. She told us you did those drawings all by yourself, without any help at all. My husband was very impressed. He said it was _incredible_."

Roy cocked his head and inched forward to take the book. Riza giggled and stamped her feet. Her smile was all broken crockery – a mess of small teeth dotted here and there.

"A bih?" She squeaked, still offering the book that Roy had already taken hold of. There was a gentle tug of war before he captured the book. A silence stretched between them as Roy assessed this weird, bright creation in front of him.

Ellie had moved to sit on the bed, patting the sheets in invitation to Roy. He clambered up beside her, being careful to leave a respectable distance. Oscar always said how important that was with ladies.

Riza whined and toddled over to her mummy, allowing herself to be yanked up and onto the woman's knee. She grinned at her success and clapped both palms to her mother's face before dropping them to fidget with her own dress.

"My husband is an alchemist of some reputation," she said, then leant to whisper sneakily to Roy, "That's why he's so grumpy – they say all alchemists are grumps." She rubbed the back of Roy's head and he fought the urge to squirm away. The little girl was staring at him strangely. Her nose was dosed with snot.

Roy flicked open the book to inspect the work, and sure enough, barely a trace of the accident was left. There was just the faintest disc of pink on the first few pages. It seemed to Roy, like a miracle. Just like his daddy's pipe: the click of the wheel, the smell of flint, the glowing tufts of tobacco, the first cloud of cherry scented smoke...

"Roy," the woman was saying, "he really was very impressed." She laughed. The sound was so bright and lovely. The little girl laughed too and smacked a hand on Roy's arm. "Don't look so shocked! Berthold thinks you're a genius if his gawking face was anything to go by. I think he wants to throw you in our cases and spirit you back to Sion Mills. Your Aunt would snap him like a twig though."

Allowing himself a smile, it was only another moment before shame sneaked back on Roy. For now Riza was pawing at the pages of his book, and a familiar rage built in his breast. He swallowed tightly.

"I'm sorry, Ms Ellie," he whispered, eyelids heavy. "I'm sorry, Elizabeth Hawkeye."

Ms Ellie sighed lightly, then smiled. She moved the book aside, then with some effort – for the toddler was almost as big as Roy – she moved Riza to sit between them.

"Oh, I'm sorry," said Ms Ellie, "You two have never been properly introduced. Riza?" The girl bleated. "This is Roy Mustang. Roy, this is Elizabeth, but you can call her Riza. You're old pals now, see? You've already had your first fight!"

A childish, snotty handshake was exchanged between the pair. But still, Roy's breast felt heavy and sad. He'd hurt this little thing. He was a bad boy.

"Roy," Ellie spoke softly. "I know you feel bad for what you did last night."

Roy glanced up, scared by the turn in the conversation, then nodded. "Sorry," he muttered miserably.

"I know... that, you didn't mean to do that, not really. Riza knows that too – she does, Roy."

Riza squeaked at the mention of her name, both hands holding onto the toe of one shiny shoe.

"I think sometimes when we're sad and lonely, it's easy – and tempting – to lash out," Ms Ellie continued. "Sometimes especially easy when people are smaller than us, but looking at you now – I know it's not in your character, Roy. Your Auntie Chris told me what a little gentleman you are – oh, she's so proud of you, like you wouldn't believe."

Another fat tear splashed on the back of Roy's hand. This was terrible. Shameful. Shameful.

A course thumb rubbed the bad tear away.

"You've had to grow up so quickly child, and I'm sorry. Your mother and father: your losing them – it is a terrible, sinful thing, and it would break my heart were it to happen to me. But when I look at you, my god, you're so like your father. So bright and hopeful, and so willing, I know, for things to be _right_ and _good_."

She shifted and before Roy knew it, Riza had been thrust into his arms. The child, to give her credit, looked just about as surprised as he was. He hurried his arms around her to keep her from falling. The weight of her was almost unbearable as she wriggled then settled in his lap. Ms Ellie stroked his fringe from his eyes, then Riza's from hers. She let go of her daughter, who breathed noisily in Roy's lap, but seemed largely – amazingly, content.

"Look, see? If everybody looked after everybody else the way that you're looking after Riza here, wouldn't the world be a wonderful place? It's nice, isn't it, to look after people and keep them safe?"

Roy nodded, his chin tickled by Riza's soft hair. The toddler squirmed a little and freed a hand to explore Roy's interlocked fingers about her belly. He laughed – surprised even at himself – when she tried to shove her own small fingers amongst his. When he acquiesced, Riza squealed with delight and threw her head back to beam at him with her charmingly messy grin.

"See how you shine, Roy?" Ms Ellie took his shoulder. "_Just_ like Oscar. Just like your father, Roy. You are such a good boy. You are a very, _very_ good boy."

Soon Roy was weeping again, holding on tight to the plump, chirruping anchor on his lap.

Ms Ellie rubbed his back, while Riza's fingers grasped tighter.

"What's say you stick around a little longer, Roy? Put that suitcase back under your bed and look after your Auntie Chris the way you're looking after this wee mite here?"

Roy nodded, a sob sputtering from him, and rocked Riza on his knee. She made a plaintive 'aw' sound and bounced where she sat.

When his upset stilled, the trio sat together a while longer; Roy and Ms Ellie chatting about some of Roy's favourite things: trains, the leafy patterns of frost on glass, the tall serious men who commanded attention around his Aunt's bordello... And the boy felt so at ease, truly happy, that when the army-man Grumman called for his daughter from down the hall, his stomach gave a violent twist.

He was a good boy, she'd said.

As Ms Ellie made her way to the door, Roy stretched back to his case with urgent, panicking fingers to dig amongst the tissue paper.

"Ms Ellie!" He called, slipping off the bed and running towards her. She turned, adjusting Riza's place on her hip.

Roy removed his hands from behind his back and held them out to the smiling woman. There, nested in his small palms, was his mother's simple hair clip. In the brisk light, it looked so fine – like an offering to the gods.

"To say sorry," he said.

Ms Ellie's smile turned sad. "Oh Roy, we can't accept that – you'll regret giving it away."

Roy's tummy gave another nasty jerk. "No!" he said, taking another step forward. There was a debt to be paid here, he knew that. This was right. He threw his head back to this sketchbook lying open on the bed. "For that. It's fair, Ms Ellie." He struggled to make himself understood. "One for one, Ms Ellie. Please." He nodded and raised his offering even further until his shirt rode up.

The woman's face changed like the sun coming out from behind a cloud. "Berthold _would_ be impressed," she said, then smirked at Roy's confused frown. "Okay, Roy. Thank you for this wonderful gift. We'll look after it very well – it's beautiful."

As she took it reverently from Roy's outstretched hands, he grew suddenly self-conscious. "It's broken!" he exclaimed.

Ms Ellie's eyes crinkled at the corner. "We'll look after it even more then."

Roy smiled and offered his hand. "Thank you, Ms Ellie. Good bye."

To free her hand, the woman placed the clip into the hungry grasp of her daughter. She gave Roy's hand a firm shake.

"Good bye, Mr Mustang. I expect we'll meet again."

Roy was going to say, "I hope so," but he didn't quite get the chance. He and Ms Ellie were too busy laughing at a joyful Riza, who had quite unabashedly shoved the clip into her mouth.

Such a pity, that in years to come neither child would remember the encounter, and sweet Ms Ellie Hawkeye would be gone.

* * *

Chris stood at the broad kitchen window, watching steam rise from the gleaming wet cement after a deafening summer shower. The light cut the dissipating clouds and glanced off the water dripping languidly from branches and overhead wires, each drop a spectrum as bright as a falling star. Behind her, Emilia was preparing the day's special – a steak and kidney pie – and the slap-slap of worked pastry gave soundtrack to the scene outside.

A moment later, she heard the turn of the stiff door handle and seconds after that, a shock of black hair bobbed past the window.

Roy waddled awkwardly into the yard, arms full of a laundry basket three times his size. His skinny legs bent as he lowered it carefully to the ground, then he skipped back and a while later, returned burdened with a chair.

Four weeks had passed since the incident in the dining room, and in that time, her nephew had developed something of an obsession: 'looking after'. The evening following the event, when she found all her porcelain ornaments stuffed into his small room – each wrapped in newspaper – she'd been shooed out by an anxious four-year-old stinking of polish. "Not yet, not yet!" he'd chastised. "It's a surprise, Auntie!"

He fussed over everything now: straightening pictures about her place, moving her shoes from where they'd been abandoned in the porch to their more proper place on the rack, _chasing_ salesmen from the door, small fist pumping... And while the art remained, he now shared his interest with anyone who would listen, including the unfortunate cats. He had become a self-titled genius and reminded everyone he came across that he was actually rather incredible. Charlie Knox thought it was a gas, while Emilia grumbled and warned Chris that she would have another type of monster entirely on her hands if she didn't curb his enthusiasm.

Her thoughts were broken by the scrape of wood on concrete. Roy had dragged the chair over to the far left and was clambering onto it to hang up the first item of laundry. When he'd seen the sky darken a little while before, he'd squealed and run outside to fetch down all the drying clothes. Getting things wet was the worst. He'd told Chris off one morning, just because she'd simply let the freshly washed items get soaked where they hung.

Another scrape and up he went again, fingers struggling with the clothes pegs.

"Can't say it's all bad," Emilia deadpanned behind Chris.

Chris smiled and waved at Roy who waved back energetically, almost toppling himself off the chair as he did so.

Much later, with hair spiked comically from his bath, Roy toddled into Chris' room to be changed for bed. The nightly ceremony that Chris once dreaded, had now turned into one they both cherished and looked forward to.

She dried him off, changed him into pyjamas warm from the hotpress, and combed his hair into a more sensible arrangement. He skipped off to his room, chattering as he went about how the veins on the leaves outside were just like the veins in Polly the Cat's ears. "All patterns!" he exclaimed.

Where other children were read stories from a colourful book, Roy and Chris indulged in stories about the great Oscar Mustang and his journey eastward. How he met the beautiful Jun Xia and stole her away while bands of Xingese horsemen chased them across the desert. Sometimes her eyes would dampen and sometimes his would, but these days, the child always fell asleep smiling.

"What are we going to talk about tonight then, Roy-boy?"

Roy's legs rose beneath the sheets in keen anticipation, ten small bumps showing where his toes were. "Mmm... do you know... Kipling?" he asked.

Chris shook her head, smirking. What was this all about now...? "Nope, can't say I do, kid."

"That's okay. I'll tell you. I remember Kipling real well," Roy rushed out.

Chris sat back against the headboard and closed her eyes, her hand resting on the crown of Roy's head. "Go ahead, wee man."

"Well, Oscar knew him from Xing," Roy paused at Chris' doubtful eye on him. She closed it again when he challenged her with a provocative shrug. "... and he smoked a pipe and all that, and went East and fell in love with a load of books. And he had whiskers, like a cat or Mr Grumman."

"Mmm... terrific..."

Roy nudged her harshly. "He said you have to be able to wait real good and not bother with what other people say about you, and dream big big _big_! But you have to watch out for your dreams too, because sometimes they can take over... If you do all of that stuff, and know how to keep quiet about it – because you have to know how to hold your water, Auntie – the whole world will belong to you. You'll be like a – like a king! He was really smart, like Oscar and me. He was probably a genius too."

"Sounds like it," Chris laughed and mussed her nephew's hair forward. He grouched up at her, running busy hands through his dark strands to put them right again.

"Mm-hmm."

"What about you, Roy? Would you like to fall in love with books like Kipling, or girls like your daddy did?"

Roy threw his head into his hands and kicked his legs under the covers. He groaned, disgusted that she would even ask him such a thing. "No," he whined. "Books Auntie Chris! No snotty girls!"

Chris laughed, and Roy laughed too. Oscar's smile flashed before her, and Jun's pretty, knowing eyes. She flicked off the light as Roy slid further under the covers, then kissed his forehead and stood.

"We'll be okay, Roy-boy."

The boy looked indignant in the scant light. "I know, Auntie." He turned on his side to face her, black eyes glistening. They were full of fierce promise, of resolution. "I'll look after you."

* * *

Thanks chaps! Please drop a comment if you have half a chance-een! :p


End file.
